Exit Kingdom (19 page)

One man wrapped up in a parka walks by them. Moses stops
him.

The citadel, he says to the man. Where is it?

The chapel? says the man. He points across the courtyard and continues on his way.

Then, in the distance, they see the spires of the structure. There are seventeen of them lined up in a row, grey spears standing ten storeys tall against the grey sky. It is unlike anything
Moses has ever seen before. Dangerous is what it looks like,
a structure of sharp steel edges and spikes – looking so like a weapon that Moses imagines it swung by one vicious giant against
the jugular of another. Or a row of monstrous teeth, calcified to pale white – the petrified jaw bone of some ancient dragon.

Jesus, Moses says. That don’t look like any cathedral I’ve ever been in.

Moses, please, says the Vestal Amata and takes his arm at
the shoulder. The snow is collected on her choppy red hair – as though the winter itself would make her disappear.

Come on, he says. I been around a long time, and if there’s one thing I learned it’s that the things that look most dangerous usually ain’t. It’s the ridiculous-lookin
things you got to watch out for.

So they cross the courtyard, holding their arms before their faces to
block the wind and snow. They are not dressed for this weather, and Moses can feel his beard icing up.

They go around the side of the chapel. A ramp leads up to the glowing doors like the protruded tongue of a sleeping beast, and they climb it. They enter through the wide double doors and find
themselves in a huge hall lined with pews – the buttresses of the seventeen spires creating a row
of triangular ribs inside that gives you the impression of having fallen into the belly of a
beast. But there is an odd violet glow in the place, a perverse warmth that does not seem to jibe with the bitter grey outside.

Then an old man approaches them. He wears a suit and tie and moves with surprising alacrity from some alcove in the side of the place across a line of pews and up the aisle
towards them. It is
the Pastor Whitfield, and he introduces himself with a smile.

You are seeking sanctuary, maybe? the old man asks. We welcome all.

That’s nice, Pastor, says Moses. But I’m just carryin her for a friend. A monk who goes by Ignatius.

The old man smiles widely and claps his hands together.

Ignatius! he says. A dear old friend of mine. I’m so pleased to hear he
is still with us. Are you part of his congregation?

Us? Moses says. No. Well, I ain’t at least. He told me to bring you her. She’s a Vestal.

The old man looks at the girl with the cropped hair and smiles benignantly.

A Vestal, he says. I’m not sure I understand. She’s . . .

She’s special, Moses says.

We’re all of us special in one way or another. I’m sure this young woman—

Special as in the slugs don’t want her, Moses blurts out. The man’s kindness makes him nervous – along with the purple glow of the place, the sense of peace, the downright
civilized tone of it all. He is unused to the niceties that come along with comfort and safety.

They don’t— the old man begins, but stutters. They don’t—

That’s right, Moses confirms. They don’t want her. It could
be she’s an angel or somethin. At least that’s what the friar speculated.

You mean, the pastor says, she’s immune?

Immune? Moses says and looks to the Vestal. I don’t know if you’d call it immune. If she died would she not come back? Beats me. But they’re not interested in makin her a meal.
I reckon we could give you a demonstration if you got any slugs around. I don’t know if it means
anything.

If what you say is true, sir, says the pastor, then this young lady means a great deal indeed. But maybe more to science than to the Church. Please follow me. I would like to introduce you to
some of my friends.

Moses doesn’t like being called sir. He can’t remember the last time it was done. It fits him ill. He longs suddenly for the barren wilderness, the brokedown country
roads, the
collapsing structures, the wandering dead. It is there, in that place of ragged leftovers, that he knows how to behave.

But the old man seems kindly, and he offers them coffee, which Moses hasn’t had the delight of in a long time, and he loans them coats to wear as they cross the wide expanse of the snowy
courtyard again. And so he follows the man, and the Vestal, still skittish,
follows Moses. And when they are inside the buildings of the compound it is almost possible to forget that the world ever
became the wilderness it did.

It is a community. A whole functional community, clean and calm behind guarded electrical fences and concrete walls. There are soldiers, yes, marching with neat precision, but
there are others, too. Civilians to be observed
in the glowing windows of bunkhouses, even children. Technicians tinkering with machines, sitting in front of computer monitors. And scientists and
doctors walking busily to and fro in white lab coats.

Moses wonders if this is the order he has been craving – if this is what order looks like. It has been so long. So long. He keeps a hand near a pistol on his belt in case of a trap. He
looks
warily around corners before he turns them so that he won’t be taken by surprise. The Vestal, too, seems to wither under the fluorescent lamps lining the ceilings of the compound. She
cowers against Moses’ chest.

Strange, he thinks. The girl has been through so much. She has been beaten and lost and whored and imprisoned and broken and put back together – but she has never been simply safe.
It must
taste sour to her. Unnatural.

Yes, Moses thinks, that is what the girl must feel.

They are led by the pastor to a research wing of the compound and introduced to men and women who are cordial and businesslike. They smile politely and disbelievingly when Moses tells them about
the Vestal. But then the Vestal does give a demonstration, three soldiers standing by ready to shoot
the female slug in the head when she goes for the girl. But she doesn’t. The Vestal walks
right up to the slug and stands before her. In the bright lights of the lab, everyone watches as the two lock curious, pitying and befuddled eyes. A long string of drool falls from the lip of the
dead woman but she makes no move to wipe it away. Then Moses sees the Vestal’s lips move, as though she were
speaking to the slug – just briefly, a phrase. But he is standing behind
glass with the scientists and cannot hear what she says. Later he asks one of the soldiers who was in the room with the Vestal.

What did she say? Moses asks. To the slug, I mean.

The soldier shrugs, still stunned by the demonstration.

She said it soft, the soldier says. I couldn’t really hear it. But it sounded
like, Where are you?

After the demonstration, the scientists sit the Vestal down and proceed to ask her a series of questions, many of which have to do with the things she has eaten or the drugs she has taken or the
places she has been.

While the interview is taking place, the Vestal keeps glancing over at Moses, who nods seriously. It is a reassuring nod, but also one that says she
is obliged to continue.

After a while, Pastor Whitfield himself approaches the desk where the scientists are talking with the Vestal, and he suggests that they give the girl a break.

She’s travelled a long way to be here, he says to the others. Let’s give her some supper and some time to herself. Can we resume at another time?

The scientists agree and begin to discuss their notes among
themselves. Whitfield takes Moses and the Vestal to a dining hall, where they eat hungrily. Around them, at other tables, are
civilians who do not even notice the newcomers. This place, it must host many travellers. Children run around the tables, screaming happily, their cries echoing from the raftered ceiling. It is
nice, this place, and yet Moses winces as though prickled by the sounds
of joy.

How do you enjoy our food, my dear? Whitfield asks the Vestal.

It’s lovely, thank you, says the Vestal in her most formal and subservient voice.

Then she excuses herself to the restroom.

Pastor, Moses asks when she has gone. You’re a man of God.

I am.

A true man of God?

The pastor smiles gently.

I am a man of a true God, he says. We all endeavour to be true
men, but our successes on that front aren’t to be measured here in this place.

Moses considers this and finds it a fair response.

And this place, he says to the old man. It’s safe?

As safe as any I’ve—

For her, I mean.

I see. You wish to be reassured that we will not hurt her. Because the girl has been hurt enough, yes? For someone who identifies himself simply as her delivery
man, you are generous to be
concerned about her. I assure you, Mr Todd, we are not in the business of hurting people. We are a sanctuary here. There are still some of those left, you will be happy to hear.

Moses nods.

One more thing, he says.

Whitfield opens his hands palms up as if to offer himself for service.

When I told you about her, Moses says, you took her straight to
the doctors.

The pastor nods.

Is that cause—

Moses starts to ask his question but stops short and looks around as though someone were spying on them. He shifts and leans in closer to the pastor and continues.

Is that cause you don’t believe she’s holy? Cause you believe it’s just a thing with her body rather than her soul?

The pastor smiles, folds his hands and leans forward
as if he would meet Moses in conspiracy over the tabletop.

I’m a man of God, says Whitfield. You said so yourself. It’s my business to believe that God has a hand in everything. It’s an article of my faith that things are the way they
are because they are supposed to be that way. Is the girl divine? Absolutely. And so are we all.

But—

But the two things are not mutually exclusive,
the pastor continues. Her body may have some divinity it can share with the rest of us. The soul, the body . . .

Whitfield waves a hand as if to dismiss them.

. . . Our desire to distil one from the other is a child’s game. For good or bad, you are your appetites as well as your expiations. You are just as much what you
would
eat as what
you
do
eat. Look around you. The dead risen. The
body has its harmony, too. Where is the soul?

Whitfield knocks against his own sternum.

Right here, he says. In our playful and meagre guts.

The pastor sits back, and so does Moses, considering what Whitfield has said. After a few moments of silence, Moses speaks.

Faith sure has changed, he says and shakes his head.

Not much, Whitfield says and smiles. It’s just got a little
bigger. Things tend to do that when you open your eyes to them.

We have rooms for you, says Pastor Whitfield after they have eaten. He shows them into what looks like a dormitory wing of the compound, but there don’t seem to be
civilians living there. Moses wonders if they will try to keep them locked up, but the rooms they are shown are snug and clean and have unbarred windows
opening onto the courtyard.

We can make you both very comfortable, he goes on. We didn’t know whether you were . . . together, so we’ve found two adjoining rooms. Use them as you see fit.

The Vestal looks up at Moses. He sees her white face out of the corner of his eye, but he does not return her gaze.

Actually, Pastor, Moses says, I can’t stay. It’s my brother. I left him in a bad
state – told him I would come back. He needs help. He got shot, and the wound’s got
infected. When he’s took care of I’ll come back. Abraham and me – both of us will.

Whitfield says he understands and goes to gather some antibiotics from the medical wing.

Do you trust em? asks the Vestal when Whitfield is gone.

She sits on the edge of one of the beds, her arms crossed over her chest.

They seem all right, Moses says.

They’re too nice.

Some people are just nice, I reckon.

I don’t want to be an experiment.

You ain’t an experiment. Everybody just wants to know why you’re different. They figure that out, maybe they can put things back to the way they were.

I don’t care about things going back to the way they were.

Moses opens his mouth to demur then realizes
some thing.

I don’t really care much about it either, he admits. Some worlds you’re just made for, and I’m made for that one out there. But it ain’t everybody so adaptable. You might
do somethin for those people.

She keeps her arms crossed and looks out the window, the snow falling in hard streaks against the darkening sky.

I don’t want to stay, she says stubbornly.

I’ll be back,
he says. Two days. Then we’ll figure things out.

Let me go with you, she says. We’ll fetch Abraham and then we’ll all come back, all three of us.

They ain’t going to hurt you, Moses says. The sooner they get their research done, the sooner all of us can leave.

Your job’s done, she says. You can leave now. Ain’t no obligation bringin you back.

There is a challenge in her voice.
She wants to be corrected. She wants a promise from him. Moses wonders if this is a woman he can make promises to. He wonders how much of her is a lie. Even
now. The fear in her eyes – it could be just another performance.

I’m comin back, Moses assures her. I ain’t entirely done with this place. Abraham’s gonna want to see it with his own eyes. And maybe we can recuperate here for a bit.
Besides,
you’re my beheld responsibility. Even though you’ve been workin contrary to it, it’s my thought to keep you safe till the full stop of this journey. Maybe this is it, but anyway I
got to make sure I ain’t delivered you into hazard.

Fine, she says.

But she won’t look at him.

He goes to the door of the room and turns around once more before going out.

I’m comin back,
he says. Two days. You’ll be okay.

Then she does turn to him, the full blaze of her eyes whipping sharp at his.